“Poor, poor girl,” June Gaines murmured. “He’d hurt you.”
Caroline sucked in a breath. “How? Who—”
Outside the room and around the corner, she heard a man’s voice. Gruff, distinct. And close by. The voice came closer. Sheriff Gaines.
“I have to go,” Caroline said, jumping from her seat. “I’m sorry. They need me at the desk.” Glancing around, she picked up a spare lunch tray and headed out of the room, only to come face-to-face with Sheriff Gaines and his giant German shepherd in the hallway.
She couldn’t turn away.
“Everything all right this evening?” The sheriff’s voice, low and gravelly, seemed to penetrate her skin.
“Yes, sir,” she squeaked out, glancing up so quickly that she only registered a blur of uniform and dog.
Gaines eased the German shepherd back to let her pass.
“Thank you.” Caroline hurried away, keeping her head down. She couldn’t help but smell the canine’s damp fur and a hint of sea air still lingering on the sheriff’s clothes.
As she headed for the nurses’ station, she could hear June getting agitated, mumbling nonsense about medical issues. Caroline slowed her steps, listening.
“Now, June, what’s wrong?” Gaines said gruffly.
“It’s too late, can’t save her,” June cried out, her next few words incoherent.
Caroline backed up to the wall, hugging the tray tighter to her chest.
“Stop,” Gaines insisted, the agitation rising in his voice. “Pull yourself together.”
“He’ll hurt her again. There’s no telling what he might do.”
“Shh. Junie, hey now. It’s okay,” Gaines added softly. “She’ll be fine. Don’t you worry.”
As Gaines’s room door closed with a click, a lone tear slid down Caroline’s cheek.
There was no doubt now. Ten years ago, someone had really hurt Emma. What had happened? And why wouldn’t Emma tell Caroline the truth?
FORTY-ONE
SHERIFF GAINES
2016
The last real conversation Gaines had with his wife had been ten years ago.
It wasn’t even a conversation. More like an exchange, short, curt, to the point. He’d blown her off, sent another officer to check on the hospital case when the call came in about Coach Thomas.
Guilt crept up his neck. It happened every time he thought about that night. He wished he could reverse time, go back, and slow it down. Tell her to be careful driving home. Tell her he loved her.
The truth was this: That night, that particular hour, Gaines cared more about his job. He was in a bad mood, and he didn’t want to talk about labor, epidurals, or babies. They were both workaholics; they didn’t have children—June couldn’t, which was fine with him. So she buried herself in her career, which left him as her only friend and confidant. She couldn’t talk with the other nurses or staff.
So that part landed with him.
She could go on forever. Her list of tasks and favors was endless because June always wanted to save everyone. She was altruistic and good.
He loved her for it and at the same time it drove him crazy, because it wasn’t the real world. Not his world. People got themselves into messes; he could help, but in the end, it was their job to get themselves out.
Especially on nights when there wasn’t enough manpower in Georgia to handle all of the crises. Gaines felt a migraine coming on. He craved an icy Coke, a bag of chips, and a fried shrimp po’boy. What he needed was a good night’s sleep, an air-conditioned bedroom, and no interruptions.
November 2006
“Lee, I need to talk to you.” June’s voice was halting, the way she got when she was upset and deciding the best course of action to pursue.
Her voice mail came on the heels of three other emergency calls that had the department in a small uproar. After downing a barbeque sandwich in three bites, Gaines forced himself to take thirty seconds and call his wife. “We’re really busy,” he told her, his scanner blaring in the background. He cupped his hand over the receiver and motioned for one of the deputies to turn the volume down. “What’s up?”
June gave him the details. “I have a patient . . . I think she’s in an abusive relationship. She was pregnant. She’s all beaten and bruised. Gave the city PD some story about a drifter who attacked her and tried to rape her at gunpoint, but the story doesn’t add up. The gal who handled the rape kit said she really didn’t find anything—of course it will take awhile for the tests to come back. What concerns me is that she has older injuries, and when I pressed her about them, she stopped talking.”
That was his cue to come up with an answer. “Did you give her the number for the women’s shelter?” Gaines asked.
“Lee,” she sighed. “She won’t even admit what’s going on.”
He cleared his throat. “Anyone who can help out?”
“She has a solid family, but won’t let me call them. As an adult, she doesn’t need consent for anything.”
Gaines took a swig of cold coffee. This was way out of his jurisdiction, but June liked to run cases like this one by him. The women whose lives she couldn’t fix.
“Lee, she lost her baby as a result of the attack.”
“Oh, bless her heart,” Gaines exhaled. “Does the father—whoever he is—know that?”
“I don’t think so. No one’s shown up here identifying himself as the daddy, but I have my suspicions.”
Gaines pulled at his collar. “Do I know the kid?”
June paused. “The man,” she corrected firmly. “And, yes, I believe you do.”
“Great. Just great.” It was all he needed. One of his cronies knocking up some twenty-one-year-old debutante.
As a new 9-1-1 call came over the scanner, the station exploded with electricity. Gaines covered the phone. “Hang on, June.” He couldn’t listen to his wife and dispatch at the same time. “What’s going on?” the sheriff called out to the closest deputy.
One of the men looked up. “Distress call. Someone’s collapsed at a pharmacy downtown. Weak pulse, nonresponsive.”
“What’s the address?”
The scanner blatted the address again. His officer looked to him for direction.
“Sweetheart, listen,” Gaines snapped. “I have an emergency. I’ll get by there later.”
June was silent for a moment.
The sheriff swallowed and gritted his teeth, expecting her to reprimand him sharply.
But his wife replied softly, calling him by his full and given name. “Boyd Lee Gaines . . . it’s important to me that you look into it,” June replied softly. “Now, promise me you’ll talk to the girl later tonight. I’ll give you her name when you call me back.”
The sheriff closed his eyes. “I promise.”
2016
Gaines remembered hanging up, swearing under his breath, and grabbing his gear. He’d promised. He’d broken that promise. And it was the last time they’d ever spoken.
June—the living, breathing, full-of-life woman he once knew—was gone forever.
In his office, alone, Gaines sat at his computer, head in his hands. It wasn’t often that the grief got to him, but June was so out of control, so agitated today, that he could barely reach her. And for what?
After they’d gotten June sedated, he’d quizzed the nurse about visitors. Who was her regular nurse? Who else had contact with his wife? What about the cleaning people or the dining room staff? Someone, he insisted, was upsetting June.
Finally, one of the aides stopped and inquired about the commotion.
She cocked her head. “There’s a high school volunteer assigned to her. She was in earlier and saw Dr. Gaines.”
Everyone stopped talking.
Gaines edged closer. “You have a name?”
The aide grabbed a clipboard and shuffled through paperwork. “Christie, Carol . . .” She ran a finger down the page. “Caroline,” she chirped. “Caroline Marshall.”
Marshall. The sheriff’s t
hroat went dry, but Gaines showed no reaction. “Thank you,” he forced himself to say, though his jaw was so tight he could barely speak the words. “That’ll be all.” He nodded his thanks, leaving a bewildered staff in his wake. Outside the nursing home, he’d walked, not rushed, back to his squad car and gotten inside.
Below his calm exterior, the blood in his veins pulsed hard. He grabbed his cell and dialed while pulling out of the parking lot. At the sound of a familiar voice, Gaines barked for the deputy to find an old Mansfield yearbook. By all miracles, a few dusty copies had been located. They were waiting on his desk when he arrived.
After thumbing through the first two impatiently, in the third he located a photograph of one Caroline Marshall, sixth grade. Gaines scratched his head. She didn’t look a thing like her mother.
Gaines closed the book and pushed it to one side. With a sharp intake of breath, he pulled his keyboard closer and began typing for any and all records on Allie’s sister.
One popped up—a website business run by none other than Emma Marshall. He clicked through the bio page and waited for her information to load. The sheriff blinked at the image and compared the yearbook photo. Caroline Marshall was the spitting image of her aunt.
His fingers hovered over the keyboard before entering the login for the local hospital records. One of his part-time deputies worked several shifts a month in medical records and had passed on access to the system more than a year ago.
Gaines typed in the Marshall sister’s name and waited as letters and numbers populated the screen. Emma Marshall had been an emergency room and obstetrics patient. The same night the coach had died.
This had been the girl June was talking about.
Gaines fell back against his office chair, chin in his hand. He rocked back and forth. Marital status: Single. Address: Brunswick. Place of employment: Her father’s veterinary office. He’d thought about the coach having an affair with the younger sister but then assumed, for all of these years, that the coach had seduced Allie Marshall. It made some sense that they’d had a lover’s spat, and she’d retaliated with that stupid editorial in the paper. The editorial that could have blown his career to hell.
The sheriff sank farther into his chair. Was it possible he’d had the wrong woman all this time?
Gaines replayed the decade-old conversation with June. After that night, all of the tragedy, the guilt wouldn’t let him forget it.
“Do I know the kid?”
June paused. “The man,” she corrected firmly. “And, yes, I believe you do.”
“Great. Just great.”
But oh, it was a stretch.
But it meant that Allie Marshall had an entirely different score to settle. She’d witnessed at least one of Coach Thomas’s infamous discipline sessions. And that meant she’d guessed correctly about the steroids—on her own.
Gaines groaned out loud, shaking his head. The older Marshall girl had been set to go to Emory. Medical school. She’d worked in the vet clinic for years, done surgery alongside her father. Handled emergencies.
The sheriff felt the room start to spin.
There was only one way to know for sure.
FORTY-TWO
ALLIE
2016
After borrowing her mother’s car, Allie mapped out the route to D’Shawn Montgomery’s house. Montgomery was the player who’d lost the big game for the Wolverines in 2006. Allie remembered, because it was the same night Coach Thomas had beaten Ben’s brother.
To the best of her knowledge, after getting a scholarship to Clemson, Montgomery played for the Tigers for three years and went pro. Picked up in the NFL draft, Montgomery signed a contract, received a million-dollar signing bonus, and promptly fractured his leg during the first preseason workout. Montgomery came back to Brunswick.
At one time, the living space must have been impressive, mammoth among the smaller cottages that dotted the rural road. But the yard had grown tall, full of straggling weeds and dandelions. On closer inspection, paint peeled from shutters, at least two windows were broken, and the mailbox appeared to have been used for target practice. It lay crumpled, shot full of holes, next to the front concrete steps.
Allie raised a fist to knock on the door. When her knuckles made contact, the sound was hollow and tinny. Music played inside, a television blared. She rapped again, harder this time.
The door opened a few inches, then several more. A tiny woman eyed Allie with suspicion. “You with collections?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Good, my husband had to chase a man off with a shotgun last week,” she snapped and wiped moisture from her mouth with the back of one hand.
“Is D’Shawn here?”
“What do you want with my son?” The woman narrowed her eyes. “My boy can’t leave the house these days. He’s on disability.”
Allie gulped back her surprise. “Ma’am, I just wanted to talk about his football career.”
D’Shawn’s mother smiled then, flashing a gold tooth. “Ah, you’re a reporter,” she guessed. “Must be a slow news day, but that’s all right.” She beckoned inside. “Don’t know if he’s up to talking much. He ain’t been feeling right lately.” The woman shuffled along in her slippers. “But now, a news story, that might put a little spark back in him, yes it might.”
Allie thought about correcting her, but decided it would be less trouble to explain later than ask first. Once they realized the connection, it wasn’t likely she’d have another chance, considering the mailbox and the husband who chased away unwanted visitors with a shotgun.
She had to ask D’Shawn face-to-face. Watch for his reaction. Caught off guard, he wouldn’t have time to lie or make up an elaborate story.
“So, he’s had some health problems? I’m so sorry,” Allie said, hoping she might explain.
“Health problems. Yeah, you could say that,” D’Shawn’s mother answered with a sniff and a roll of her dark eyes. “High blood pressure, depression, heart all clogged up. Now the doctor says he got these cysts on his liver.”
Allie’s brain raced. It all could be related to genetics—unlucky family history—environmental factors, or drug use. His doctor would know, but those records were HIPAA protected. Her best chance was simply to ask.
They walked down a dark hallway and around a corner. The back of the house was brighter. Windows lined the far wall. Allie blinked and let her eyes adjust. They fell on an inground pool, the water’s surface smeared with a film of green algae. Overturned plastic chairs and crumpled beer cans littered the yard.
“Here’s my boy,” the woman exclaimed. “And his daddy. D’Shawn, this here girl wants to talk to you about football. She’s a reporter.”
D’Shawn, covered with a sheet and a tattered cotton throw, appeared to have been sleeping. He looked smaller and much thinner than in his photos. His dark face had a yellowed cast. There were empty pill bottles and open containers scattered on the tray beside his elbow. The room smelled of mildew and cat urine.
“Where you work at?” The father peered up at Allie through smudged spectacles.
Allie yanked her gaze away to answer the question. “Well, you see, that’s—”
“His Clemson days, now that’s the story there. You should have seen him on the field.” D’Shawn’s mother closed one eye to look up at Allie.
“Yes, ma’am,” Allie agreed and glanced around for a place to sit. The sofa and chairs were covered with ratty, threadbare blankets. Food containers were stacked on most of the tables. Allie decided she’d stand.
Mrs. Montgomery launched into a speech about D’Shawn’s rise to fame, his NFL draft, and the resulting injury that ended his career.
“Mama, stop.” D’Shawn’s weak voice filtered through the woman’s chatter.
Allie turned with a small smile and clasped her hands at her waist. “Would you mind giving us a minute?” She looked at the father first. The man didn’t move a fingertip. Apparently he spent most of his waking hours in the same chair.
>
D’Shawn’s mother clicked her tongue and rocked her head back and forth, still mumbling about the Clemson Tigers and her boy. His parents weren’t leaving. She needed a crane to burst through the ceiling and pick them up.
It was about to get ugly. Allie needed to take her best shot, grab for information, and go.
“What I wanted to ask, and my question may seem a bit unusual,” Allie began. “It involves the high school here.”
D’Shawn frowned and looked at his father. “What?” He narrowed his eyes at his mother, still swaying back and forth. “You said Clemson, Mama. What this about high school?”
“More specifically, D’Shawn, your coach in high school,” Allie said and decided to dive in. “Did he encourage you or any other players to use anything to make you stronger and faster?”
Silence filled the room.
Allie swore she could hear her own rib cage expanding and contracting. She forced herself to say the word. “Steroids?”
“What you say to my boy?” D’Shawn’s mother launched her small frame out of her chair and came at Allie, one wizened arm drawn back to slap her face. “You want me to call the police? What kinda reporter are you?”
Her husband jumped up and held her back.
“Wait a minute.” Allie backed up and put both hands up to ward off an attack in case she wriggled free. “I don’t want to get anyone in trouble. I was only asking about the coach. Boyd Thomas.”
“The same man who got hisself killed?” the father asked. His wife stopped struggling.
Allie nodded.
“He got a scholarship for my boy, full ride to college,” the man added. “All them boys woulda done anything for him. Ain’t that right?” He looked over at his son for agreement.
D’Shawn stared at his hands. He hadn’t moved or said a word.
“Son, answer your father. He asked you a question,” the mother said in frustration.
Allie tensed and scanned the former player’s face for clues. He was holding back, she thought. He knew something. But his parents weren’t helping.
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